


Unknowing That Lead the Unwilling

by AnneMayfair



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneMayfair/pseuds/AnneMayfair
Summary: In which the things are slowly set in motion.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zara aka perditionxroad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zara+aka+perditionxroad).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the things are slowly set in motion.

Prologue.

“From childhood’s hour I have not been  
As others were; I have not seen  
As other saw; I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring.”  
Edgar Allan Poe, “Alone”.

Tenuva came up with a new name the day her ship made port in Highever. “Ruthen’ara” to anyone with basic knowledge of Dalish culture would mean… nothing. It’s a mindless, senseless jumble of letters with no meaning. But to all others, and all others made for the biggest part of Thedas’ population, “Ruthen’ara” was a name as elven as any other. And so she named herself “Ruth” to everyone who would ask her name.

And humans sure loved to ask names. The man who rented her a room in a run-down inn by the crossroads asked her name. A woman who served her dinner in West Hill asked for her name. Even a man who sold her a horse asked Tenuva for her name. With each time, she would say:

“My name is Ruthen’ara. Recently of Clan Lavellan.”

And each time it would happen smoother and more natural than the last.

By autumn’s end, Tenuva, now known as Ruth by many people, arrived to Redcliffe. A handsome village that is to become a city, Redcliffe provided her with quite a bit of excitement. The first night she slept in an empty round house by the river, and in the morning Ruth discovered her horse to have been stolen. How it happened she never knew – Mythal knows, this woman has most delicate sense of hearing. She lamented the loss of a steed, and decided to find her way into Haven.  
But she didn’t find one until almost a week later.

She found a man who looked for servants. All she needed to do to get employment underneath him was citing a few canticles from Chant of Light, the song that pilgrims would not stop singing. Ruth only listened to it a few times in her life, but her recital seemed to be enough for the man.

“Why would you seek a job in Haven, in Chantry?” He asked her. His white beard reached the middle of his chest. “Speak, child.”

Ruth knew another thing about humans. 

“I come,” she started, trying to look as pathetic as possible. “I come from the Dalish. They have many gods, and all of them are cruel. All of them abandoned the People. I think, I think that Maker may care for the elves. Maybe the Maker would take me under his eternal light.”

And the man smiled. And Ruth had secured her passage to Haven.

“The thing about humans”, she thought the next day, as she and many others boarded a large aravel-like structure on wheels, “the thing about humans is that they always think themselves to be the best. And as long nobody gives them any reason to doubt that, you can do anything you want with humans.”  
Road to Haven included two nighters at pilgrim stops, and many breaks when horses got too tired and when the passengers needed some rest. All in all, Ruth, now not Tenuva at all, shook inside the uncomfortable carriage for two more weeks before she reached Haven.

And the rest is history.

Theseus Trevelyan, of course, came to Haven differently. He rode a horse so purebred that its thin legs, contrasted by a large and voluminous body, threatened to snap every other minute. Anyone who’d glance at Theseus would’ve noted that the rider must be just as purebred as his mare.

A fine son and heir to a religious family, Theseus travelled with comfort and style. Yet somehow he never felt at peace with it.

“There are people in this tavern,” he thought when a tavern wench placed his meal in front of him, “who haven’t seen so much food in a day. Perhaps even a week.”  
He prayed, and he devoured his meal. And then he went to sleep in the most luxurious room the inn could sell him for his shiny coin.

When he woke up the next day, his horse had been fed fine oats and groomed. The saddle was polished, and his breakfast was hot and plenty. He clothed himself in his fine cloak, refusing the help of a stable boy, and rode towards Redcliffe. There he planned to meet with his brother.

But his brother left before Theseus reached the town. A note of seventeen words had been left in safekeeping of a local bartender. A note so dry and official that it made Theseus’ eyes water. He tore the note to pieces when everybody looked away. A man of his standing must never be seen crying.

With a map in his right hand and a piece of pie in another, he traced his next route. Ten days until Haven. 

Like before, he travelled with comfort. He travelled fashionably, too – rescued a group of pilgrims from being robbed by a band of six ruffians. His swordsmanship gained lots of praise from those he rescued. One girl, with large green eyes, smiled at Theseus all evening. She even tried to find her way to his sleeproll after dark. Theseus faked being heavily asleep. He even dabbed a bit of wine around his neck to let her believe he got too drunk. After three attempts of waking him, she left.

“I should probably find something more modest,” thought Theseus the next morning. His expensive clothing attracted too much attention of several types.

So he rode to Haven for eight more days. Comfortably. Fashionably.

And the rest is history.


	2. The Nights Before The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Temple of Sacred Ashes becomes a home to many problems and conflicts.

“The war was lost  
The treaty signed  
I was not caught –  
I crossed the line.”  
Leonard Cohen, “Nevermind”.

She worked at the Temple for seven weeks now. Men and women blurred together as she kept her face low and spoke only when spoken to. Tenuva remained in the Free Marches, where Clan Lavellan slept and ate. In the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the newfound heart of the Chantry, slept and worked a woman named Ruth. And Ruth worked very hard to get very little.

“No showing your snout in the front rooms or living quarters,” the woman who oversaw female servants told Ruth on the first day. “Don’t want to scare anyone important with your ugly face.”

Female servants got sorted. Those like Ellena, Ruth’s new friend, waited tables for esteemed guests and dusted shelves in the front rooms. Those like Ruth had a series of less pleasant jobs. Washing dishes and taking linen to the riverside, cleaning chamber pots and chopping meat for cooks. It sat well with Ruth, who feared interacting with too many people. They scared her. 

Some days later, Ruth found herself talking more and more to a girl named Ellena. She occupied a bed that stood next to Ruth’s in their sleeping quarters, but they barely saw each other as Ellena worked in front rooms. She was very beautiful, with sunkissed skin peppered with freckles, and a head of red hair. She wore it down like many other girls, but she never used it to hide her pointy ears. More than often Ruth found herself catching a glimpse of a gentle gesture with which her new friend tucked a lock of unruly hair behind her ear.

Ellena, although an elf, came from Highever. That explained why her face remained clean of the vallaslin. She got very excited to hear that Ruth passed through her hometown on her voyage. She got very excited to hear that Ruth was a Dalish. All in all, Ellena proved herself to be easily excited.

“I’m so sad you can’t be with me in the front rooms,” Ellena told Ruth many times. “You have very kind eyes. You’d find a good husband in no time!”

When that phrase was dropped, the sorting of female servants made much more sense to Ruth. But she didn’t really need a husband. She found herself content with Ellena’s company. Together, after most chores and work was done, the two women would go outside and find a nice place where they could see the entire Temple. Ellena often spoke about pleasant young men she met during the day, and Ruth listened.

“And there is another one,” she described her day, “well, two of them, to be precise. Brothers, I believe. Oh, they look delicious! Square jaws and bright eyes, but the older one is always brooding. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen either of them smile.”

They found a pleasant spot on top of a steep hill. Together, they hurled a fallen tree trunk closer to the edge to make it their bench as they spend their evenings together. But as they soon discovered, both of them lacked quite a bit of height when they sat down, and both of them engaged in a childish habit of rocking their feet in the air.

“Are they nice?” Inquired Ruth, letting her hair down for a brief moment.

“I think so,” Ellena tossed a piece of bread to a grim-looking red-eyed bird that jumped around in grass beneath them. “The older brooding one is a Templar.”

Ruth knew precious little about the Templars even though she spoke a few times to sisters of different Chantries. As she learned from Ellena, humans and city elves confined anyone blessed with magic to a special place, and Templars bore the duty of guarding them. And everything had been fine until Templars decided to abuse the Mages, and Mages decided to fight the Templars. She heard quite a lot from men in armor and from men in robes, but nothing made sense. She had never heard of a conflict before where both sides had been at fault and innocent at the same time. 

“I’ll ask Mistress Ossen to let you clean front halls,” Ellena assured Ruth at the end of the day. “You’re the kindest among girls here, and you deserve a chance to show it to other men.”

They walked through a buzzing town up to the Temple, and made their way into lower rooms with dim light of fat candles. Night servants with sleepy eyes and tired gestures lazed around, finding their tools and sorting orders, and the day servants stepped away from their posts into dormitories. Ruth and Ellana slept in a room with eight other girls, and preparation for sleep had been a rather loud affair for weeks. Chatter and laughter filled the room as girls and women fixed their bedding, pillows and blankets being fluffed up, and Ruth felt satisfied with her position.

“I mean it,” Ellana turned in her bed to face Ruth. 

“Thank you,” smiled Ruth in reply. 

They probably met a few times. When, right after the guests were called to the dining halls, Ruth would go to gather dirty linens and chamber pots, and Theseus would follow his brother. But neither recalled it later, for their routines differed too greatly.

In the mornings, while Ruth rushed around the Temple with other servants, Theseus would rise from his soft bedding in a room with a large window. He’d have a quick wash, and then he would spend half an hour in solemn prayer. He had a list of names to go through – his father, his mother, his brother Theo, and a number of close-ish uncles and aunts and countless cousins. Then he’d grit his teeth, and lash his own back three times until he drew blood. Awkwardly washing that blood off, he would finally dress, and prepare himself to meet his brother.

“Theo!” He’d cheerfully greet him every morning. “I hope you slept well, brother.”

Theo has changed a lot. His eyes sat deep within the dark eye sockets, and his brows cast a strong shadow over them. His nose bore a bright scar, and his cheekbones looked dry and weathered. Still tall but gaunt, Theo’s posture still retained its military straightness. Yet somehow something about it seemed defeated. His dark hair, crudely cut, he fixed in a messy knot on the back of his head. And a pale shroud seemed to cloud his eyes on all occasions.

“I asked you before and I shall ask you again,” he’d speak to Theseus in a raspy voice, “to not ever call me “brother” again. The Templars are my brothers now.”

And, without another word, Theo would walk away from Theseus, not looking back. Theseus would clear his throat in the hallway, hoping that none of the other guests overheard that conversation, and he’d follow his brother into the dining room.

A grand dining hall it was indeed. Ceilings of it stood higher than the grand bell tower of a chantry Theseus grew to love as a child. An entire room lit up the moment sun showed  
its face through stained glass windows, and the choir started their song as guests and members of the Conclave took their seats for the meal.

All tables have been divided into three groups, and although the Divine encouraged people to mingle and sit together, the divide showed itself clearly. Templars waddled their way to the leftmost tables, close to the fireplaces and the table where sat members of the Chantry. On their way, they crossed paths with a crowd of mages. They’d give each other a passionate, hateful look, and proceed to their seats. And various nobles, Theseus included, sat at the middle tables.

For a long time, he had been confused as to how he should seat himself. On one hand, he wished to face his brother. Theo may not wish to speak to him, but Theseus found himself determined to have at least one meaningful conversation with his brother, even if it meant being as pesky as a lovestruck madman. On the other hand, he had a most intense feeling of instinct to not turn his back on the mages. Yes, many of them smiled and wore their hoods down, and their staves have been abandoned in the living quarters. But if anything he knew about mages was true, none of them would need a staff or a hood to light Theseus on fire, and they could even do it with a smile.  
In any case, he chose to face his brother while he ate.

He noticed that Templar’s chosen meals differed from those served to the nobles. While he enjoyed various cuts of meat and vegetables, drinking ales and beers, the Templar seemed to consume exclusively boiled peas with some fish. Theseus could bet that nothing but water filled their goblets. Sometimes he wondered what type of food the mages ate, but he preferred not to establish too much contact with them.

Theo left the dining hall promptly with the Templars, and usually Theseus couldn’t catch up to him in time. He had to apologize too often to people he’d have standing to be able to pass, and by the time he exited the table, Theo would be out of his sight. With a dampened mood, he’d stroll back to his seat.

“Can you imagine it?” Asked a lady with long dark blonde hair next to him one day. “Last night the Divine shared her meal with the poor! Over us!”

“I find it to be very noble,” replied Theseus, trying to remember if this lady ever introduced herself to him. “She is showing us all an example of good Andrastian nature.”

“Yes, but I hope I won’t have to seat nowhere near her in the future,” blabbered the lady. “She might’ve gotten lice.”

Talk like that proved to be the main reason Theseus soon stopped dressing as a noble, and stopped mingling with the nobles. There is only so much a man could take.  
He tucked all his most expensive clothes away, and assembled a simpler ensemble. A well-made and sturdy hunting gambeson, paired with decently made travelling pants and bearskin gloves of matching color. When he put all of it on, Theseus examined himself in the mirror, using the rest of the daylight. 

Why would he even enjoy the daylight? He occupied this room alone, and he knew many nobles had to share. It seems that this room, like almost everything else he possessed, was a result of his life-long privilege and luxury. He arrived to Haven a brother to an apparently prominent member of the Templar Order. One word from Theo granted Theseus a separate room, although dozens of words from Theseus wouldn’t grant a meeting with Theo. But Theseus slept in his bed alone, and his chambermaid regularly came by, asking if he needed anything. Of course, he always refused her service. He wondered if he attempted to behave more modestly with that, or if he simply wished to hide.

Silence of this room and it’s clean window and floors sang sweetly to him. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Theseus’ eyes fixated on his bearskin gloves. Warm light softly rolled over their surface, and Theseus enjoyed the sight of them – so clean, so refined, but he would toss them away the moment one finger gets a small tear during a battle. Theseus suddenly realized that he didn’t know how much these gloves cost. Are they expensive? Are they cheap? They may as well be even luxurious and he wouldn’t know it. Bewildered by that realization, his eyes traveled to the polished surface of the mirror.

He appeared as usual. He knew he attracted attention of many ladies, and a smile shot through his lips. But then again, his mood plummeted down as he saw no scars covering his face the way they brandished Theo’s. 

“In some wicked way, I’m like my gloves,” he thought. “Shining and bright, useful to someone. And just like my gloves, I’ll be thrown away the moment something is wrong with me.”

“Mylord?” His chambermaid’s head appeared in a narrow strip of light of his open door. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Oh,” Theseus turned away from the mirror. “Yes, quite.”

Her bright face with smiley green eyes performed miracles on Theseus. Regardless of his mood and his constant denial of her assistance, he seemed to be glad to see her.

“Shall I call the laundry maids?” Inquired the chambermaid, pointing to the assortment of messy clothes Theseus threw around in frustration.

“Uh, yes,” he replied mindlessly, only later realizing he had condemned a laundry maid to wash already clean clothes. “But later.”

“Of course, mylord,” bowed the chambermaid, and closed the door.

Theseus spent the rest of the evening alone.

Ellena, for it was she, hurried along the walls of the hallway until she made it safely to the servant’s quarters. She found Ruth sitting on her bed, checking something under her skirts.

“If it itches, I can look,” she told Ruth, landing on the bed next to her. 

“What? No!” Ruth’s cheeks turned much redder than their usual color. “I’m fine.”

To tell the truth, she felt uncomfortable for most of the time. She disliked the grins some of the men gave her, and she knew they perceived her as weak and docile. She needed something to prevent any unpleasant accidents, so she started hiding various blades on her person. Most blades she made herself from halla horn, and their thickness remained undetectable underneath layers of thick woolen clothing she had to wear as a servant. However, they indeed poke her through the fabric, creating a constant itch in different places.

“Listen,” Ellena cleared her throat, straightening her apron on her knees. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What is it?”

“Actually, it’s more of a request,” suddenly, her face flushed, and she gazed down, unable to look Ruth in the eye, “I have something to ask.”

“What is it?” Ruth turned her whole body to Ellena, somehow growing excited.

“I wanted to switch with you,” her friend’s voice sounded almost pleading in desperation. “I do laundry work for you, and you take a couple of night cleanings in the guest hall. Just two nights. Please.”

Ruth felt her excitement change into surprise and then into understanding. Ellena’s eyes glistened a bit too brightly, and Ruth knew she held herself back from crying. Something bad happened to her when she last cleaned the rugs in the guest hall, and now she wanted to stay away from it.

“Why are you asking me, though?” She inquired, lowering her voice. Ruth side-eyed a few girls who still slept or lazied around on their beds, awaiting for the nigh servants to take their place. “You know I’m not allowed anywhere near front rooms and guest halls.”

“Mistress Ossen goes to bed at seven,” Ellena followed Ruth’s example, lowered her voice, and looked around, too. “She wouldn’t know. And you know how to fight, right? I’ve seen your scars, on your arms,” she tapped her fingertips on her forearms where Ruth’s scars were, “I’ll do your laundry for a week!”

Ruth sighed. 

“Night shift, up your arses! Nobled wouldn’t clean themselves!” Mistress Ossen peeked into their room, yelling at top of her lungs. Red-faced as ever, Ruth could smell cheap wine come off of Ossen from half a room across. Her hair, contained in a dirty hairnet, shone as if smothered in oil. Ruth watched her scold one of the napping girls with Ellena, and then they exchanged looks.

“Whom should I watch out for?”

“A tall man,” she replied, “dark brown hair, slightly messy beard. He’s a valet to one of the Templar lieutenants.”

“This night and the next,” Ruth nodded. “Sleep tight, Ellena.”

She stood up, thinking where to hide until Mistress Ossen went to sleep and she could sneak into the guest halls. Her thoughts got interrupted by a heated embrace from Ellena, whose face reddened and whose breath became quite shallow.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you very much.”

Ruth said nothing. It’d be rude otherwise.

Rudeness, however, appeared to be of little concern to Theo. With furrowed brows and gritted teeth Theseus watched him push people around. Mages he seemed to hate with a special passion, as Theo’s sword had been unsheathed at them several times in just one day. Theseus would agree that the Mages did everything they could to draw Templars’ attention, but his brother reacted way too easily.

“Grey-skinned red-handed bastards!” Yelled a man in a mage hood; a whole group of mages hugged the wall while a number of Templars grimly watched them from an opposite corner. “See them shiver, friends? They crave lyrium. Must it be so bad? They’d rather drink our blood to get it than confront a Chantry sister!”

“That sounds excessive, good man,” Theo rebuffed his words. “Be on your way.”

“We have just as many rights to be here as you do,” the Mage couldn’t quit. “You might want to move your men before something happens to them.”

“That is indeed enough!” Theseus couldn’t contain himself. He couldn’t understand his brother’s compliance with such treatment. “Have respect for my brother, mage, and mind your own business!”

“Respect?” The Mage spat the word in Theseus’ face with such violence that he was taken aback. “I have no respect for Templars and milquetoast brats like you! Our dearest sister died because of men like them!”

“Theseus, enough,” Theo’s voice called his name for the first time in years, and Theseus felt fire blow up inside him.

“I am very sorry about your sister, but my brother is an honorable man and has done great service to both Chantry and Cirles!” Theseus spat back at the mages. He overlooked them, and so many of them appeared pathetic scared wretches that he almost felt sorry for them. “Theo Trevelyan has brought great…”

“Theseus!” Theo sounded irritated, but the damage had been done already.

A soft gasp, like a wave, rose from chests of the mages as they looked at one another. Suspicious eyes peered into Theseus and Theo, and the latter’s face dulled while Theseus stood there, lost and dumbfounded. Even some of the Templars seemed to be whispering when he turned to look at them. For the love of Maker, Theseus couldn’t figure out what upset them so.

“Theo Trevelyan of the Shadows?” mages whispered and templars repeated after them. “Theo Trevelyan, the blood-smelling hound of Sister Eugenia?”

“Now, hold on,” Theseus lifted his hands in the air. “I think you need…”

“How could you live with yourself?” a woman behind the first mage spoke for the first time. “How could you stand here, in front of us, and hear someone defend your honor?”

“You shouldn’t…”

“You bastard!” She shouted, darting forward. Her companions held the woman back, but she struggled with all her might. “You kill our children, and they let you be here for the Conclave? I wish you were dead! I wish you were dead and gone and cold in the ground!”

“Well, I do, too!”

Theo’s baritone sounded twenty, fifty times louder than anything Theseus ever heard in his life. He slowly turned to face his brother, seeing how disgusted he seemed at this ordeal. Templars behind him began leaving the room.

“I do, too,” he repeated to the Mages. 

And they left, too.

Theseus and Theo were left alone in a dimly-lit room. Theseus looked around them several times, slapping his thighs in contemplation, and then faced Theo again.

“You really shouldn’t tolerate such treatment,” he breathed out. “You have nothing to be ashamed of…”

“Do I?” Theo’s voice shook, but not from tears, but from anger. “How would you know it, Theseus?”

“Brother?” he asked in confusion.

The next moment, Theo slammed Theseus into a wall behind him, beating all the air and his very soul out of his body. Theo’s heavy gauntlet pressed against his chest threatened to pierce his gambeson, and Theseus realized he couldn’t draw a full breath. Sweat started to gather in his brow, but he found within himself to look at his brother’s face. He examined all his wrinkles and scars he hadn’t previously noticed, and saw burning rage inside Theo’s eyes.

“I told you a thousand times,” he snarled like a beast. “And a thousand times more to never ever call me brother again. You little, ungrateful, spoiled brat that can’t take a simple command! You don’t get to call me brother! Templars, the order, they’re my brothers now!”

Theo drew back, prompting Theseus fall on the ground, coughing violently. 

“Stay here until the end of the week,” Theo wiped his gauntlet over Theseus’ gambeson. “Then go back home. Give my love to our parents.”

He left, leaving Theseus silently gagging and almost crying on the floor.

And the next day is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am experimenting a lot, especially with bouncing the story from Ruth to Theseus and back. I am indeed throwing socks at a wall, looking what sticks, but... yes.


	3. A Day's End

_**“There’s something inside me** _

_**Unborn and unblessed** _

_**Disappears in the ether** _

_**This world to the next.”** _

_PJ Harvey, “When Under Ether”_

 

Tasks Ruth performed the first night of her swapped shifts consisted mainly of sweeping the floors, fixing carpets, and stocking more candles for day service to use. She found herself in a position luckier than few other girls who worked with her – their eyes, blinded by nighttime, required candlelight to perform. Ruth, however, found it tolerable to navigate guest halls without any light at all.

Night progressed to its peak, and moonlight coldly poured in from windows and skylights. She had never seen them before – openings of glass in rooftops, designed for stargazing – and kept her head up, counting the stars. She saw _Silruil,_ a star that always guided Dalish to East, and she felt slightly more at peace.

Ruth entered a secluded, dimly lit hallway alone. None of her coworkers expressed any desire to follow her, so she took a crate of candles and a couple of brushes, and started doing her job. A long hallway connected to only four rooms, but something told Ruth that these rooms must be the size of an entire tavern floor. At least.

Carpet here seemed to be in extremely good condition. It barely had indentations from where shoes and boots would traverse it, and not a single drop of liquid had been spilled on it. Ruth found, however, a caked spot of dirt – perhaps a bit of mud fell here and crusted with dust – and, dropping to her knees, started working at it. The crate with candles stood abandoned near a single vase that decorated the hallway.

Silence around her for a long time got interrupted only by sounds of her scrubbing, but about quarter of an hour later Ruth felt her ears tense. Somebody stepped behind her, lightly and slowly. She paused her chore, waiting for the trespasser to go away. But the footsteps stopped.

“Is anyone there?” A gentle voice inquired.

Ruth felt herself relax. Ellena warned her to beware a man, and this voice unmistakably belonged to a woman. Slightly raspy, maybe from recent sleep. Ruth stood back up, and saw a figured clothed in Chantry robes few steps away from her. Woman’s eyes danced around the hallway, failing to fix upon any object or even Ruth herself. After all, lighting in this hallway remained dimmed ever since Ruth stepped in.

“Pardon me,” Ruth lowered her head like the custom of talking to guests dictated. “Cleaning will be over soon. I won’t disturb you for long.”

“No, no, my dearest, no disturbance,” the woman shook her head with a reassuring smile. “But I have a request for you.”

Involuntarily, Ruth’s hand squeezed a handle of one of her knives that sat comfortably under her apron.

“How can I be of assistance, serah?” She could only hope her voice remained calm.

“Take this,” the Chantry woman extended her arm towards Ruth and dropped a neatly folded parchment into her open palm. “Go to the wine cellar, and tell the man there that Mother Dorothea requests a drink. He won’t question you, but please, be discreet. Bring it to the westernmost room.”

“Of course, serah,” nodded Ruth, watching this woman disappear behind one of the heavy doors.

Somehow, this woman’s voice instilled a sense of urgency in Ruth. She quickly hid her brushes and crate of candles behind the vase, and hurried to the cellar through a maze of servants’ corridors. She dived behind various hanging heraldry to emerge a floor down from behind a bookcase, and repeated the pattern until she emerged in the kitchens.

She hasn’t been to this part of these rooms before, though. Most of the time when she had been called for assistance, she sat at the butchery, helping others to skin rabbits and gut fish. The “white” kitchen, a place where chefs in white attire assembled plates for guests and hosts, remained closed for her. So the moment she stepped inside, Ruth stood still for a moment, taking in the difference between the butchery and this room.

Unlike the butchery, this room had windows. Small rectangles that nearly hugged the upper parts of walls showed bits of dark sky, and would undoubtedly provide lots of sunlight during the day. Large counters hid under piles of plates and cooking utensils, and Ruth couldn’t even count the brass pots and saucepans and skillets that sat on special shelves around firepits. She couldn’t even see the ceiling properly as every single bit of it got obscured by bushy ensembles of drying herbs and spice bottles.

As expected, few of the kitchen staff slept right here, on the floor. Ruth carefully stepped over the bodies, making her way towards the wine cellar. She nearly crossed the room completely when one of the cooks emitted a sharp wheezing noise, darted forwards, and grabbed her by the calf:

“Overflowing!” The man declared, his eyes blank and unfocused. “All pots are overflowing!”

“They’re not,” Ruth assured him, gently freeing her leg from his grasp, “fire’s too low.”

“Low fire,” the cook murmured, slowly slipping back into his sleep. “Good, good.”

Although it nearly scared the color out of Ruth’s hair, she continued her journey. Not a minute later, she stood in front of a heavily padded door with a small window on top. She knocked on it, and waited. No answer followed. Furrowing her brows and holding the folded note in her hand, she knocked again. And then she knocked the third time.

“What is it?” An angry dry voice made Ruth shake at the sound of it. “It’s night! I’m sleeping here!”

The window opened, and precisely one eye and part of a nose stared at Ruth through it. The eye appeared watery and clouded. Swallowing hard, Ruth held out the note in front of the window:

“Mother Dorothea asks for her drink,” she announced.

“Darn it, girl, you should’ve said it right away,” three long fingers quickly snatched the note and sucked it into the window. It closed, and then Ruth heard latches on the opposite side slide around. “Come in, I’ve been waiting.”

The door got pushed very lightly from the inside, and a sound of hurried footsteps indicated that man behind the door left his place. Counting the times she visited places where she wasn’t supposed to be at all, Ruth entered the wine cellar, closing the door behind her.

An old man with curly beard hastily assembled a tray on a rough wooden table. On that tray already stood a single goblet, a rather small bottle of darkened glass, and few small containers of silver. One by one, the man opened them, and, consulting with the note, placed bright items inside each of the containers.

“You’re new,” he said without even looking at Ruth. “Where’s the other elfie?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Ruth kept watching the man’s movements, catching a glimpse of endless wine barrels that framed the room.

“Ha! What a liar,” the man spat on the ground. Ruth wanted to say something else, but decided against it. After all, this man seemed to be sure of his statement.

He soon finished with the tray and gestured for Ruth to take it. She decided to avoid any needless accidents and tucked the goblet away in her apron’s pocket. Then she firmly grabbed the bottle by its neck, and picked up the tray with her other hand, balancing the remaining treats on its surface.

“You’re not even a dining servant,” whistled the man, tilting his head upwards to get a better look at the elf in front of him. “Holding my wine like that.”

“You’d be surprised at things I’m not supposed to do here,” smiled Ruth. Then she saw herself out.

Her trip back to guest hall where she met Mother Dorothea turned out to be a lot calmer than her trip downstairs. Although she had been gone for merely half an hour, most of night servants finished their tasks and went back to their waiting rooms. She heard shuffling behind paintings and heraldries, a sound only mice are able to produce. However, it sounded way too “mice-y”. As if it were performed deliberately by a person trying to impersonate a mouse.

Ruth reached the hall where she started her route without any trouble. She found the door behind which Mother Dorothea disappeared earlier, and knocked on it lightly.

“Come in,” her voice echoed.

Ruth slid inside the room, feeling an edge of the goblet bump against an edge of the door. She cursed herself silently.

Mother Dorothea sat at a grand carved table. Her head rested on a back of her chair which seemed to be a part of this entire set of furniture. From what Ruth could see, every single wooden surface in the room – the armoire, the tables, the chairs, even the bedposts – had the same ornament spread across it. Beautiful young women clothed in flames, surrounded by blades and roses. All of it appeared menacing in the dim light of two candles that sat on Mother Dorothea’s table.

“Your drink,” bowed Ruth.

She stepped towards the woman and placed her tray on top of it. White she positioned the bottle and produced the goblet from her apron, she side-eyed her surroundings still. Mother Dorothea’s breath, even and calm, at some point made Ruth worry that the woman fell asleep.

“Did he give you a single goblet?” Mother Dorothea suddenly inquired as Ruth finished polishing it.

“Yes, Mother,” confirmed Ruth.

She uncorked the bottle and served the wine. Placing the full goblet on a serving lace doily next to Mother Dorothea’s right hand, she heard the woman’s soft laughter.

“Nobody had called me that name in years,” she told Ruth, lifting her head and staring right at her. The elf realized that Mother Dorothea was much, much older than she appeared to be in a dimly lit hallway. “What a good joke. Thank you, my darling.”

Ruth wanted to bow and leave, but felt her wrist being grabbed. She looked down and saw Dorothea’s hand clutching hers, and looked back up at her face. Bright eyes that peered into her from deep eye sockets made Ruth feel as if this woman saw right through her.

“Stay,” the proposition was sounded. “When the moon is high, old crones like me crave company.”

“As you wish,” agreed Ruth, taken aback at this sudden suggestion. Mother Dorothea then gestured for her to take a seat in a cozy-looking armchair near her, and Ruth followed.

She felt uneasy yet secure at the same time. She knew this encounter would lead her somewhere, but she couldn’t guess where. For now she decided to see how things turn out, and to scout her surroundings if ever the need to fight arises. She simply wished she had her leather armor underneath her servant’s outfit.

“Addressing me as “Mother Dorothea”,” the woman kept chuckling and laughing, taking small sips of wine. “What a joke, what a good joke. You don’t know who I am, don’t you, my child?”

Her tone remained calm and would otherwise suggest a friendly relaxed conversation. Unfortunately, Ruth couldn’t say the same about her own cracking voice when she replied:

“I assumed you were Mother Dorothea,” she pressed her open palm against her stomach, preparing to slide it down to grab the knives any minute.

“I’ve seen Dalish twice in my life,” the woman placed her goblet on the doily and reached to take one of purple-colored cubes from the tray. “One time it was in Jeune Printempts in Orlais. They came during a market, sold their,” she tappedd the table in attempt to remember, “carved toys. Yes, they sold delightful little toys and those knotted blankets.”

Ruth said nothing.

“The second time, I was in Denerim, where people did call me Mother Dorothea,” the woman continued, examining the purple cube before eating it. “A young man, handsome, but with his face half-hidden by those tattoos, what do you call them?”

“Vallaslin,” Ruth answered.

“Yes, half of his face was hidden underneath a very opaque vallaslin,” the woman traced something in the air with her index finger. Then she took a big swig from the goblet and promptly refilled it. “He came seeking for my written note that would assure the tradesmen that their coin could be taken in business. Is that common among the Dalish?”

“I wouldn’t know,” explained Ruth, fidgeting with a trim of her apron, “even when I lived among my clansmen, we never saw many others. But traditions and customs differ from clan to clan, trying to accommodate the region where we live.”

“We.” Ruth felt her tongue curl unpleasantly and she closed her eyes, expecting some sort of flaming arrow to come from anywhere and pierce her chest, killing her instantly. Tonight, of all nights, her tongue had to betray her and mention her affiliation with Dalish. She hoped the woman wouldn’t notice.

“That is extremely unsettling,” the woman moved her chair to face Ruth, “that what we do and what we speak of makes others change their most sacred practices.”

They sat, staring at each other for almost a full minute.

“Has anyone seen you come and go?” She inquired.

“Nobody but your spies,” uttered Ruth.

The woman gasped, clutching her chest. “Spies? In this sacred place?”

Ruth held her breath for a while, then exhaled. She smiled.

“You might want to warn them that they imitate sounds a bit too,” Ruth leaned closer, “eagerly. Not a single rat sounds as convincing as their tricks.”

The woman joyfully laughed.

“Ah, my poor children,” she stated. “Too worried about me to even have a drink in peace.”

Ruth waited for her laughter to die down. When it did, the silence once again wrapped itself around the room, swallowing it whole.

“You’re not a servant girl,” the woman declared, her tone becoming more solemn and serious.

“And you’re not a Mother of Chantry.”

“Correct,” the woman confirmed. “You’re not Andrastian, even.”

 “To my shame, the vallaslin is impossible to remove once received,” Ruth tried to dodge, but the words came slowly out of her mouth as she calculated her possible retreat. It’d be quite unpleasant, considering she didn’t know how many of this woman’s spies hid behind every shelf and every painting.

“I’ve seen those who came into Chantry bearing vallaslin, and they were faithful,” the woman spoke gently. “But all of them would recognize their Divine. If not by face, then by this ridiculous garb.” She pointed at her robes, which in fact, appeared to be very uncomfortable to wear. Too loose and too flowing.

Ruth had nothing else to say or add to that statement. She waited.

“Why are you here, sweet child?” Regardless of her true intentions, the Divine sounded genuinely kind and curious. “Please, despite everything, I wish you no harm. You are alone here, not a single ally in your cause, whatever it may be.”

“Same could be said about you,” sentences rolled off Ruth’s tongue before her mind would even recognize them. “This Conclave is supposed to be a place for peaceful settlement, but every hallway bears a mark of hostility between your guests.”

Now, she really did expect a flaming arrow.

“Is it so obvious?” Divine’s head lowered, and she sounded heartbroken. “Tomorrow we must sit together, but I’m afraid I will be the only one willing to listen. Everyone has a deep wound that still bleeds, and they do not believe the others have the same.”

“Not all others,” Ruth objected. “Some don’t live to have a wound. Because you can’t cure a beheading.”

Divine lifted her head.

“Do Dalish care about our affairs?” She pondered, almost rhetorically.

“Whenever humans make a decision, about anything, it determines how the Dalish live and how we die,” certain fire suddenly lit up in Ruth’s belly. “Every decision made by your people had mine slaughtered and forgotten. So forgive our curiosity, but the Dalish would like to find out when the next massacre is due.”

The Divine fell something. She swirled the drink in her goblet around before taking another sip.

“Sleep is not something we old people are blessed with, but I can see that you are in need of it,” she uttered in a timid manner. “I shall not keep you up any longer.”

Ruth understood that the dialogue had come to an end. She stood up, but before she bowed, the Divine reached out to her again. A tiny silver container with powdery cubes landed in her hands.

“For your trouble,” the Divine said. “Good night.”

Perplexed and overwhelmed by thoughts, Ruth retreated from Divine’s quarters. She picked up her tools and a box of candles she hid not even an hour ago, secured the silver box with sweets inside her pocket, and stepped towards a back staircase. As she hastened to servants’ quarters, she passed a floor where Ellena worked as a chambermaid during daytime.

There, not two doors away, Theseus sat on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t sleep after what Theo said to him, and in a tone he never heard before. Their last exchange surely did not sound like a talk between two brothers.

His thoughts carried him far, back to their childhood. He remembered how Theo once held him by the hand after a sermon, and lead him behind the altar. While Lord and Lady Trevelyan stood near Chantry sisters and Revered Mother Olvie, two boys lurked among bookshelves filled with scrolls and books on Andraste and Maferath, and Theo recited his favorite canticles from Chant of Light. Little Theseus stared at him with humbled fascination, taking in his brother’s seemingly endless wit and wisdom. Then he remembered how sunshine danced on top of his head, and then his thoughts trailed to the day Theo left to become a Templar. He received his first official set of armor, a fine parting gift from their uncle from Kirkwall, and Theseus remembered how Theo looked, mounted on his horse just behind a Knight-Captain who came to collect him. Like a true knight, Theseus thought back then. Like a true knight who’d ride to slay  a dragon and save a princess trapped in a tall tower.

Before he could even understand what happened, he found himself knocking on a plain wooden door in a place he didn’t recognize. A flame of a single candle that lonely stood without any candlestick on top of a barrel, dripping hot wax right onto it.

“What is it?” A sleepy voice answered from behind the door.

“My name is Theseus Trevelyan,” he introduced himself. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“I won’t let you in,” the voice immediately sounded more awake. “No.”

“Please!” Theseus pleaded. “Ser, please. I spent all my life thinking my brother lived a life of a noble hero. And now I don’t even know who’s the man I see every day.”

“Ask your brother what he does; I won’t open this door.” A loud clank signaled him that magessa grabbed at least a knife to defend herself in case of need.

“He won’t talk to me,” he insisted. “Nobody would. At least not about what my brother does for the Chantry.”

He pressed his forehead against the door, shutting his eyes. A tight knot in his throat moved upwards, and corners of his eyes moistened with tears. This was beyond unreasonable – why would he cry? Why would he cry in front of a woman’s door, a mage even? But he did nevertheless. He stood in a hallway he was not supposed to be in, and he cried his eyes out.

At least, he thought he did.

Scraping of metal against metal, and the door he leaned on opened slightly. He opened his eyes and saw a thin blade pointed at his chest. A woman from earlier stood in front of him, still fully dressed, but her hair now freely covered her shoulders.

“You’re much younger than I thought,” dumbly muttered Theseus. “I should never have bothered you.”

“Yet here you are, banging on my door and crying,” she noted, her voice cracking slightly. “Are you armed?”

Holding one hand up, Theseus drew a short sword from its sheath and pointed the pommel at the mage girl.

“Is this all?” She inquired, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

“I’m a swordsman, not a bandit,” he insisted, slightly shaking the pommel so she would take it. At the same time, Theseus questioned whether this spontaneous action had been wise. He willingly surrendered his only weapon to a mage that could easily kill him without it. Yes, he felt awful, but death would hardly improve his relationship with his brother.

“Come inside,” she whispered, quickly shooting a glance to either end of the hallway.

Theseus stepped into her room.

“Oh,” he exhaled. “Good evening.”

As the girl closed the door behind him, Theseus got an opportunity to see a whole bunch of people bundled inside. They sat right on the floor between rows of beds that at first seemed to occupy every spot of space, faces slightly fearful and weary. He counted at least ten of them, lodged in a room half the size of his own.

The mage girl snuck past him and took her place next to a teenage boy whose face, peppered with pimples, had a striking resemblance to hers. He immediately put his arm over his, and she smiled at him. Others gave her inquisitive looks until she motioned to Theseus:

“He’s brother to Theo the Bloodhound,” she explained, “and he wants to know what his brother does.”

“Yes, as if we hadn’t heard him whimpering about it,” remarked a man with a bushy beard. Another man laughed, and it seemed to put everyone else at ease. But their ease worried Theseus much more than their discomfort.

If he hadn’t done a stupid thing before, now Theseus got himself in a room full with mages. He sincerely hoped that their good conscience wouldn’t allow them to burn a son of a noble family to a crisp under a roof of a sacred temple. At least, he thought, they wouldn’t kill him dead, only leave him severely injured. With that in his mind, he decided to level with them for a while. Well, until he left the room and got himself somewhere safer.

So he bowed to them. Formally, with a bent left knee and his palm pressed against his stomach. And he held that pose for barely a moment until he heard:

“What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does his stomach hurt? I told you the fish tasted funny.”

“I’m bowing,” Theseus gritted through his teeth. “It’s done as a manner of respectful introduction.”

“Oh, so that’s what it looks like?” A young squeaky voice came from somewhere in the corner. “I always thought it’d look more elegant.”

“This is as elegant as I can get it to look!” Getting flustered, Theseus straightened back and, irritated, took a step back to the door. “I already regret everything.”

“How do you think we feel?” The pimpled youth spoke up. “We let in brother of the Archdemon himself inside our room!”

“My brother is not…” Theseus cut his own words off. “At least, I don’t think he is.”

“Well, you think wrong,” the girl crossed her arms on her chest. “Look, if you want to know what we know about your brother, then sit down, and don’t speak a word until we are done.”

Not knowing what else to do, Theseus nodded. He looked around for a chair, but of course, there were none to be found. So he seated himself right on the floor, following the mages’ manner.

“If you’re going to kill us, please, don’t hurt us too bad,” an older woman told him in a cautionary manner.

“What are you talk… I’m not here to harm you!” Theseus spat back at her.

The first girl clutched her companion’s hand.

“Your brother, Theo…”

A loud scream came from somewhere above them, followed by a long, drawn-out howl. It sounded like a woman. And then, dozens of heavy footsteps that all faded away as some sort of tempest ravaged the upper halls.

Theseus sprung to his feet, his right arm resting on his sword.

“Stay here,” he told the mages. They had all the fear in the world on their faces,

He rushed out of the room before anyone had any say. Another yell came from above, and Theseus ran back to the stairs, and ran up. He got out of breath by the time he reached the upper floor, and a clear call for help came from somewhere deep inside.

“Maker, grant me strength,” muttered Theseus.

He ran down the hall, knocking on every door he reached. Not a single door opened, and not a single voice could be heard, other than the occasional scream. A dark hallway seemed endless, cut up in parts by vivid moonlight that streaked from the windows. Eventually, he gave up checking rooms, deciding that until he found the source of yelling.

“Hello!” He called out after yet another shriek. “Hello!”

“Move back!”

Theseus hit his hip on the windowsill as a stocky elf ran out of nowhere, right from a wall on his right, and pushed him. She ran down the hall as if she ran away from a horrible fire, and that was most suspicious.

“Watch it!” Theseus yelled. Some words came raining upon him as he gave chase, resuming his run. She looked back at him, and a frightened yelp came out from Theseus’ lips. Her eyes glowed red and yellow, two painfully bright rings in the dark.

“Demon!” Theseus yelled louder, hastening. “Demon!”

“Shut up!” She threw something at him, a candle, perhaps, but he dodged it.

“Demon!” He couldn’t let it go. He caught up to her, grabbed her by the hand, and threw her against a wall, right next to a burning torch mounted to her head’s side.

Dumbfounded, Theseus stared at her, and saw no glowing demonic eyes any longer. Instead, he stared at a young woman with a broken nose and a painted face.

‘Oh,” he breathed out. “You’re just an elf.”

Using the moment, the elf kicked him in the stomach, sending him few steps back. When Theseus lifted his eyes, she had her skirt up.

“No!” He put his hands in front of him. “No, no, no!”

“Touch me again, and I’ll kill you!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Theseus sighed with relief when he saw a small blade pointed at him.

“If I ever see you…”

A loud, thunderous sound came from somewhere near. Both of them turned their heads simultaneously, following the direction of it.

“Why are you here?” The elf asked him, shaking her blade in a threatening manner.

“Why are you here yourself?” He answered a question with a question.

“Anyone, help me!”

This time, the call sounded clearer than ever before. The elf suddenly shuddered, and her eyes widened.

“That came from Divine’s rooms!”

She took off so fast that Theseus didn’t even understand she was gone.

“Wait!” He hurried after her. “Wait, how would you know it?”

“I’m a servant here, you dumb…”

She slammed a door open, and a round object, like a ball, rolled under their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare, shifting and churning, never pausing and never ending... But hey guys, new chapter :D


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